Murder on Prime Time
by hotsytotsy186
Summary: COMPLETE When someone starts copying murders from a hit television show, our favorite CSI's are thrown into the mix and possibly into danger.
1. Allusions

"This is just wrong."

"Murder is always wrong, Nick."

"But this..."

The three men glanced around the room nervously. The walls were soaked in a red substance, presumably the victims blood.

"They trashed this place." Warrick grimaced.

"Just wait till you see what they did to her." Grissom led the them down a short corridor into what was a bedroom. Sara was kneeling at the body slowly taking inventory of the evidence left there by the perpetrator. Cathrine's flashlight worked it's way slowly up and down the wall checking for anything besides the blood splatter.

"Cause of death?" Nick laid his kit on the floor outside of the room.

"Right now I'd say a stabbing, considering all of the blood. There are at least three wounds on her chest and two in her abdomen."

"Geez..." Warrick trailed off.

"Griss, check this out." Sara beckoned him over to the still form of the young woman. "Her hand."

He took his glasses off as he gently lifted the woman's right hand.

"Index finger is completely gone. Cut off."

"Mob hit?" Warrick asked as he began to catalog the various evidence that had turned up.

"Do we have a mob in Las Vegas?"

"The mob's everywhere, Nicky."

Grissom let the hand drop to where it had originally lain. He gazed around room, his mind filling with possible scenarios as to what might have occurred. He took the time to silently take stock of his team. Nick and Warrick moved around slowly, gathering the evidence set aside by the two women. Cathrine's years on the force were beginning to show; her eyes were tired as they moved up and down in that repetitive motion that was so common with such a tedius task. His eyes settled on Sara, the newest member of his entourage. He could see her mind working furiously to make sense of this senseless act of agression. But there was something else in her eyes. Confusion? Fear?

"What is it, Sara?"

"This isn't right."

"That's what I said," Nick called from the far corner.

Grissom sighed. He'd had to say this too many times in recent history. "Don't let yourself get involved Sara. Process the evidence..."

"Void of emotion, I know. But that's not what I'm talking about." Her voice dropped to just above a whisper. "I've seen this before."

That got his attention. "What? Like in San Francisco?"

She hesitated. "No... On tv."

"You saw this on tv?" Grissom asked incredulously.

"On a show. One of those crime dramas that are so popular."

"Which one?"

Grissom could literally see the wheels in Sara's mind turning. "I'm not sure... I saw it last night..."

"Your night off."

"Yeah. What was that show?" Something clicked. "_The Precinct_. That's it!"

Hearing Sara's sudden exclamation, Catherine paused. "You watch that junk?"

Letting the comment pass, Sara continued. "Everything was the same. Same m.o. Same place- vic's apartment. Down to the finger. Everything."

Grissom didn't like where this was headed.

* * *

Sara blinked as she stepped out of Grissom's Tahoe. The sun seemed somehow much brighter than she had recalled.

After they had dropped the evidence at the lab with Greg, Cath, Nick, and Warrick to process it, Grissom and Sara and taken a short drive WKBJ, the local affiliate that aired _The Precinct_ in hopes of getting their hands on a tape of it.

They were greeted by a woman at the reception desk who pointed them up to the fifth floor, down the hall, second door on left where they could find the person they needed to talk to.

Inside of the room, a young man sat behind a desk flipping through the pages of a magazine. His hair was disheveled and there was a rather large stain of undetermined nature on his stripped polo.

"Can I help you?" he queried, looking up as they walked in.

"We need to get a copy of last night's episode of _The Precinct_."

"Sorry, can't do that here, against policy. You'll need to contact the national outlet for that." He went back to shuffling through the pages.

Sara allowed her badge to thump noisily on the desk, causing the young man to look up, startled.

"Well, you see that's where the problem is," she began. "It's much easier to get the tape from here."

"LVPD, huh? Whaddya guys need it for?" He eyed the badge curiously, almost as if he wanted to eat it or something Grissom thought.

"For an investigation," Sara said curtly.

Getting the point, the man rose. "I gotta call my supervisor to make sure it's ok."

"You do that."

Five minutes later they left building, copy in hand.

"That was some performance you put on back there," Grissom commented as they entered the Tahoe. As soon as the key was in the ignition, he turned the AC to full blast. It was going to be a hot day.

"What do you mean?"

"I think you scared the poor guy." Sara smirked. "I swear the man was about to wet his pants." He paused. "Nice thinking with the other episodes."

"I figured we ought to go back and cross-reference the latest episodes to see if anything turns up. This might not have been the killer's first murder."

"Right. And if it weren't for you, we wouldn't have caught on in the first place."

Sara allowed a small smile to creep across her face.


	2. An Inside Job

"Here, take this," Sara nudged the large bowl of popcorn across the table as she picked up the four cans of cola and headed to the couch.

"Did you get the files?"

"Uh, yeah... They're right there," she nodded to table in front of the television.

"How did I let you talk me into this?"

"I didn't talk you into this, Griss, the evidence did."

"Right." He hit play; the TV came to life as the opening credits for _The Precinct_ began to roll.

For the next forty minutes, the two sat nestled on the couch, silent, except for the munching on the popcorn and the occasional "That's not the way you do it," from Grissom that was immediately followed by a "sshhh..." or a "shut up" from his companion.

"So, does it match?"

Grissom looked down at the notebook in one hand the casefile in the other.

"It's uncanny. Every minute detail. It's like he studied the murder in this show and then copied it."

Sara shook her head. "What kind of sick soul would do something like this?"

Grissom just shook his head in reply.

"What's going on in here?" a blonde poked her head into the break room.

"What does it look like is going on in here?" he asked curtly.

"Let's see... Soda, popcorn, and a movie of some sort... I would say a date, but...."

"Catherine, don't you have something to do?"

"What are you two doing?"

"For your information," Sara said rising to through the can away. "We were watching _The Precinct_."

"Oh, that pseudo-crime drama wannabe?"

"That's the one."

"Sara found some compelling evidence that the murder of our vic..."

"Aimee Harris."

"Yes. That Ms. Harris's murder could be a copy of one found on this episode."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Catherine, since when have you known me joke about something like this?"

_Or ever,_ she wanted to add, but dismissed the thought almost immediately. "Are you saying we have a serial on our hands?"

"Nothing's definitive yet, but we are looking into it. Sara and I are watching these this episodes and then we'll cross-reference them with previous crimes already on file. Maybe we'll find something."

"Yeah, well good luck," she turned to leave. Over her shoulder, "Have fun you two."

Sara gently massaged her neck as she looked over the four folders before her. They had watched the last seven episodes of _The Precinct_. Four of them turned up in the LVPD database.

"Look at this. This guy knows everything about the episode. Where the vic dies, how... everything."

"But he always leaves one thing out..." Grissom trailed off.

"What do you mean," Sara stopped leafing through the pages.

"In the episode, the perp is always caught by some small, seemingly inconsequential, damning piece of evidence. Uh... for instance, in the episode 'Death Hath a Thousand Doors,' the man was caught because of a leaf of all things. And that other one... 'House of Glass,' the perp leaves his class ring at the murder."

"The piece of evidence that catches him, is the one piece of evidence our killer leaves out."

Grissom gravely shook his head.

Sara leaned back in her seat, thinking. Grissom also sat back, though not as much thinking as he was watching Sara think. It always fascinated him to see the way different people thought. Their facial expressions. They way the looked when an amazing idea literally hit them between the eyes. He immediately recognized that exact expression as Sara's eyes lit up.

"What was Harris's time of death?"

He looked at the file in his hand. "Al said somewhere between 7:30 and 9:45..."

"The show doesn't come on until nine." A small smirk began to work it's way across her face.

"The killer wouldn't have time to study this episode. Get all of it's nuance..."

"Get every detail correct." She nodded her head as an idea took form.

"I think we may have an inside job here."


	3. The Other Perpatrators

"Who was that?"

"Sheriff Atwater," Grissom said, shoving the phone back into his pocket where just moments earlier it had begun to vibrate furiously.

"You're kidding. This soon?"

"Apparently, someone from WKBJ found out about the investigation and decided they'd start one of their own."

"You've got to be kidding me." Grissom just shook his head.

"Excuse me, miss, sir, would either of you like something to drink?"

Sara turned to the petite blonde standing next to her. "How long until we touch down?"

"Oh, just another twenty minutes."

"Oh, I'm fine then. What about you Griss?"

"No thanks." With that the flight attendant retreated down the aisle to serve the passengers of flight 831 out of Las Vegas all of their beverage needs.

"The press are having a field day with this. They already have a name for the killer." Sara raised her eyebrow with interest. "The Prime Time Murderer."

"Well, at least they get points for being original."

Grissom sighed. "I guess the mayor's really breathing down Atwater's back about this one."

"Which means he'll be all over us."

"Yeah."

"Well, there goes my nice little relaxing vacation to L.A."

Grissom chuckled. "I don't think that going to interview possible witnesses at the production studio constitutes a vacation."

"Do you realize how long it's been since I've been out of Las Vegas?"

"As memory serves, you drove out to Henderson not two weeks ago."

She sighed. "You are impossible."

"Well," Grissom was stopped mid-sentence as his phone began to violently shake once again. "Grissom."

Sara shifted her attention to the passengers that surrounded her. A fussy baby a few rows ahead was greatly trying the nerves of a young mother who tried to calm the infant but succeeded in only getting the child riled up again, much to the chagrin of the business man behind them. A couple of teenagers gabbed back and forth to her right, not making an incredible amount of noise, but enough to let the entire cabin know they were there. It was all kind of surreal; her sitting here beside her supervisor reminded Sara of a case that they had once worked on. Her eyes swept to the lavatory as she recalled a conversation that had ensued between the two of them. She blushed.

"Well, sounds like the lab is hopping," he once again slipped the device away. "That was Catherine," he explained. "They are getting swarmed. She pretty much gave us an ultimatum: catch the guy who did this and fast. She's getting tired of fielding questions about the 'Prime Time Murderer.'"

"We can neither confirm nor deny the presence of a serial killer in the Las Vegas metropolitan area," Sara recited.

"Yeah, that kind of stuff.

"The press can be murder," she glanced over at Grissom who wore a humorous smirk and groaned.


	4. Of Clowns and Persistent Press

"That was enlightening," Sara stated as she almost struggled to keep up with the wide gaits of her supervisor.

"You've never been on a set before?"

"And you have?" she shot back.

"As a matter of fact, yes." A knowing smirk spread across his face.

"When?"

"Back when I was working here in California. B and E on a set out near Buena Vista." He turned to see her, eyebrows raised in question. "The clown did it." He chuckled at her confusion as she processed the comment. "It was a kid's show."

"Oh," she sighed. "In any case, we've at least narrowed our suspect list down." She waived the file in hand.

"Yeah, Cath said she would start doing credit checks on those names immediately."

"_I'm sorry, without a warrant, I cannot let you see these records. It's the law." The lady behind the desk had a determined look on her face._

"_The studio president said we could look through the payroll records to..."_

"_Like I said," she went back to working on the computer._

"_Officer Roy," Grissom called out the door. "Could you please serve this nice lady her warrant?" The officer nodded, handing the paper over._

_In the end, she had turned out to be very helpful, giving them everything they needed. By eliminating females (Catherine called and said the results of the skin under the victim's fingernails from one of the previous crimes had come back male DNA) and those who did not work all of the episodes in question, Grissom and Sara had narrowed down the suspect list forty-two, a large but managable number. They had faxed the list to Catherine who would check all credit card and public records to see who had been to Las Vegas when the crimes were committed. The process had taken up much of the day so they would have to return tomorrow to question the cast and the crew._

__

"Mr. Grissom!" Grissom and Sara whirled around to see a camera crew rushing toward them. "Mr. Grissom, is it true that there is a serial killer in Las Vegas? Does the show _The Precinct_ have anything to do with it?" The reporter shoved the microphone in Grissom's face. It was promptly brushed aside.

"Excuse me?" Grissom's voice was laced with anger.

"Is it true..." Grissom cut him off.

"I don't know how you got this kind of information, but I cannot discuss an ongoing investigation."

"Just tell me..."

"Good bye." With that, he pushed Sara forward, guiding her with his hand resting in the middle of her back away from the camera.

"How did they do that?" She asked upon entering the rented car.

"Who knows how the press does anything." His face was drawn, tight.

"You think they know where the hotel is?"

He sighed. "Yes, they probably do." He sighed again. "This is one thing I won't miss."

"Miss? What do you mean? Are you going somewhere?" she fired in rapid succession.

"Oh, just when I retire or something," he glanced at her. Seeing her worried expression, "Not any time soon."


	5. A Closer Look

Grissom rolled over, wondering what had wakened him from his respite. He tilted his head to the left. Silence. He sighed and turned to go back to sleep. There it was again. He groaned as he sat up and reached for his phone.

"Grissom."

"Hey, I got something you might want to see."

"Sara, what are you doing up right now?"

"I couldn't sleep. Just come over to my room. You have to see this."

He sighed, closing the phone with a gentle snap.

She opened the door before he even knocked.

Through his hazy mind, he noted that she wore only a camisole and shorts.

"Sorry to wake you up, but you had to see this." She didn't mind.

He peered into the room, to the tv where an image sat still, frozen on the screen.

"This is the first episode our killer copied. See the actress there?" He nodded, taking in the picture. A dark blonde, with brown eyes. High forehead and thin lips. "This is a picture of the first vic, Kaitlyn Royers." She held the picture up beside the screen. Grissom's eyes widened. He took the file from her hand and brought it close to his eyes then readjusted to look at the tv.

"They could be sisters." Sara nodded solemnly.

"That's not all." She fast-forwarded to the next episode, stopping on a similar shot of the next actress, this one with a round face, curly black hair, and pale skin.

"Gloria Mayner." Sara held the file up.

They repeated this process two more times, finding the same result each time.

"He's killing a woman who looks like the actress from the show..." Grissom trailed off.

"How does he find them?" She paused. "Film the episode, take a picture of the woman, come to Las Vegas, and start looking. Find one that'll work... follow her around...," she postulated.

"Could be a coincidence." Sara looked up from the file. "An unlikely, one yes, but possible."

She sighed. "Incredible, absolutely incredible..."

"Sara," he huffed. He hadn't meant to be so difficult, he was just tired, that's all. "I didn't say I believed that, just that it's something we ought to at least consider." She didn't move. "Look, that was really... intuitive of you. You did good."

He turned to leave.

"Well. I did well."

He smiled as he closed the door.

* * *

Sara was surprised that, for once, life really did imitate art.

From all the movies and shows she had seen about Hollywood, she had expected to find a large sound stage, filled with people scurrying around silently, while a director barked out orders from behind a megaphone.

What she had found was a large sound stage, filled with people scurrying around not silently but oddly quiet, and while he wasn't using a megaphone, she could definitely tell who the director was.

She turned back to the man in front of her.

"You said, 'When we're at work.' What's your usual work week?"

Brian Lundly, producer, answered, "Well, depends on how much we get shot and stuff. Main cast usually gets at least Saturday and Sunday off."

"Mr. Lundly," Grissom interjected. "After you're finished taping, who has access to those tapes?"

"Well," Lundly thought carefully. "First we get it off to the editors. Director sit in with them... Then it pretty much goes back on the shelf until we're ready air. Unless, of course the head honchoes want to view it," he added quickly.

"No one else can get them?"

"I guess if they tried hard enough, they could. There't kept lock up pretty tight."

"Hey, Brian!" A dark haired man came up alongside them.

"Dr. Grissom, Ms. Sidle, this is Mitch Hol. He's one of our writers here." Turning to the man, "Mitch, Dr. Grissom and Ms. Sidle are investigating a murder."

"Around here?" His brown eyes looked expectantly between the two CSI's.

"No," Sara began slowly. "In Las Vegas."

"What's it got to do with us?"

"There may be ties between several murders in Las Vegas and this show. We're here to see what the evidence says," Grissom said.

"Spoken like a true criminalist."

"Ah, Mitch," Lundly said after a slight pause. "Was there something you needed to tell me?"

"Uh, yeah. We're ready for you in the conference room."

"OK. I'll be right there." Mitch sauntered off. "Is there anything else I can do for you two?"

"We just need to walk around, talk to people."

"Alright, just stay out of the way." He was gone.

"There are a lot of people here, Griss," Sara commented, looking around. "Maybe we should split up and see what we find."

Grissom nodded his agreement and the two parted.

* * *

"It doesn't bite."

Sara jumped back, surprised. "Excuse me?" she asked breathlessly.

"The food. It doesn't bite. You're welcomed to take some."

"Um..." she glanced over her shoulder and the kraft services spread. "I'm actually not all that hungry."

The man shook his head with amusement.

"Have you seen anything suspicious around here?" She dove right in.

"What?" He looked like he was staring at an insane person.

She pulled her badge out. "Sara Sidle, Las Vegas Crime Lab."

Realization swept over him. "Oh. Suspicious?" He raked his hand through the thinning blonde hair atop his round head. "No, not really. Nothing I can think of."

"No one acting out of character, or someone you haven't seen before loitering around?"

"Lady, this is Hollywood. Everyone's acting." He turned and left. Sara had no idea how they would turn up any evidence here. She turned back to the table.

"Yeah, I know... Are you crazy?" A man, the director with his cell clenched at his ear, flew around the corner, knocking Sara forward into the table. He didn't even slow down. Hearing the noise of Sara plowing into the table, Grissom rushed over and helped her to her feet.

"No... No... What? Are you kidding me...." He stopped in his tracks. "I don't care...You get me that girl or....Oh, I can get her? 'Cuz that's my job around here, isn't it? She already had her measurements! Fine...Fine!" He slammed the phone shut and raised a hand to his head.

Sara glared at the man, wiping chunks of food from her body.

Noticing her, the man said, "Sorry, lady." He wiped his brow. Suddenly, he whipped his head around and looked intently at Sara. His eyes wondered up and down her body, stopping at her face.

"Hello," his demeanor suddenly changed. "Miss... I'm sorry, I didn't get your name."

"I didn't give it," she replied acridly.

Grissom shot the man a death glare, but he continued anyway. "What size do you wear?"

She lost it. "WHAT?"

His hands dropped lamely to his sides. "Look, I'm sorry about... that," he gestured to the table. "I'm Luis Garcia, the director." He was met with icy stares. "I'm in a bit of a bind here, alright. The actress that was supposed to play our victim cancelled all of sudden and we have to start taping her scenes in... two hours. You are her size, I can tell just by looking at you. You have the right look. Could you help me here? We'd only take like three days or so."

Sara gave him an _are-you-kidding-me_ look. "Mr. Garcia," she began, but before she could continue, Grissom jumped in.

"Sara, can I talk to you?" He pulled her aside. "You're probably going to hate me for saying this, but I think you should do it."

"Grissom are you crazy? Have you absolutely lost your mind?" She was waving her hands around animatedly.

"Sara," he grabbed her wrist and pushed down to her side. "Just listen." He took her silence as a good sign. "We are getting nowhere here, alright? There is not enough time for us to interview each person, but if you do this, if you get into this show, you'll have an inside track on these people. You'll be able to find more out about each of our suspects." He paused and did his best puppy dog face. "Please."

She softened. "Do you really think it'll help."

"It couldn't hurt any."

She sighed, knowing she was trapped. "You better sign off on the overtime." Louder, "Mr. Garcia, when do I start?"


	6. Concerns

"Nah, man. There is no way that he is the best QB of all time," Nick called across the break room.

"What?" Warrick hissed as he gingerly set his cup of coffee to the side.

"S.I. totally messed up on this one. Just because you have one good season..."

"Man, you don't know what you're talking about..."

Catherine stifled a chuckle from the couch. The men turned to her. "I'm sorry guys," she waved her hand in front of her face. "It's just so funny."

"I'm sorry Cath," Nick drawled. "I fail to see the humor in this situation."

"Boys will be boys." She just shook her head.

"Alright guys,"the atmosphere physically grew heavier as Grissom entered. "I've got your assignments right here."

Catherine look around. "Uh, Gil..."

"Yes, Catherine," he answered as a teacher might to a pupil.

"Uh..." she looked around for support. "Aren't you missing something?"

His eyes shifted a little, but other than that, Grissom gave nothing away.

"More like someone." Warrick brought the paper cup to his mouth and swallowed. He still had no idea why he drank so much of the bitter liquid. He didn't even like it.

Grissom looked around with a blank face, incomprehension etched into his skin.

"Sara, Griss. Where's Sara?"

"Oh," he removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "She won't be coming in today."

"What?" the three asked in almost unison.

"She called in." As if it happened every day. He passed the assignment sheets out and left abruptly.

Nick, Cath, and Warrick sat in stunned silence.

* * *

He had kept his end of bargain. Pretty well too, he thought. He had taken Sara's words to heart- he had not told a single soul that he knew any thing about her being in California. There was a part of him that was glad he was good liar. Well, at least a half-truth teller. She wasn't coming in today. Didn't yesterday. She had called, but to check in, not because she was sick.

But there was also another part, the part that was becoming more vocal in his conscience, that constantly reminded him of how reckless he had been.

_Take the part... Stay here... Get close to killer..._

He had been caught off guard at the set; a new idea had settled in his mind. He hadn't throughly thought out that idea, though, and now he wasn't entirely sure that it had been the correct one.

He leaned back in his chair and rotated his neck first to the left, then to the right. A gentle popping sound emitted as he brought his head back up.

What had he been thinking? Sending her in there, into the lion's den...

Hadn't they been in this situation before? Hadn't she been the one who wanted to go in, undercover, to root out the suspect? Hadn't he said no, put his foot down?

Now, he said yes without hesitation. Now he was the one who came up with the harebrained scheme.

He closed his eyes and groaned, hoping he hadn't made a fatal mistake.

His eyes popped open.

He hadn't heard from her yet today.

He eyed the cell phone on the corner of desk suspiciously, almost willing it to ring .

But it didn't.

Instead, Catherine walked in.

"Getting a lot of work done, I see," she gestured to the pile of files and loose papers crowding his desk. "That better not be my vacation request."

"What do you want, Catherine?"

She hesitated. That wasn't like her.

"Gil, we're worried about Sara."

"Why?"

She scoffed. "She didn't come in again today."

"She called in." Yesterday.

"Have you ever known her to be sick?"

"Catherine," he leaned forward. "She's human. It happens."

"Yo, Griss, I'm with Cath on this one." He looked up. Nick and Warrick were standing in the door jam. "She's never called in before, even when she was sick."

"Guys..." He felt a migraine coming on.

"Last month she came in with a fever," Warrick offered.

"She wasn't contagious..."

"Of a hundred and three." Silence. Warrick had made his point.

"Alright. Alright," he was resigned to his fate. "If she doesn't come in tomorrow, we'll give her a visit." Nick looked relieved, Catherine looked pissed, and Warrick... well, Grissom still hadn't been able to read his face.


	7. Hollywood and Vine

"Gil!"

He sighed and turned to face the blond. "What Catherine?"

"We got a match on that tire tread."

"What tire tread?" He had been trying to make it to his office for the past half hour and had succeeded in only moving about three yards.

"From our latest scene."

He shifted the stack of folders and files in his hands. "I don't recall seeing any tire treads at Aimee Harris' home."

"Not Harris, Robbins."

He followed as she entered the layout room. "Catherine, what are you talking about?"

She stopped dead in her tracks. As she turned, Grissom could see a mixture of confusion and agitation on her face. "Ecklie didn't tell you?" He glared. "Obviously not. Day shift got one of ours a couple of days ago..."

"Then why haven't we been processing it?"

"Because they didn't realize it was our guy. Apparently, no one on day shift watches _The Precinct._" She seemed to have placated him. "They couldn't reach you for some reason, so they gave it to me."

He sighed again. "What kind of match?"

"Tire impressions indicate that the car is a new Jag, just started coming out last month."

"Compare that against the list we have from the studio."

"Already on it." A pause. "Sara's not here again, is she?"

"Catherine," he said exasperated. "It's still a half hour until shift starts."

"Exactly. She's usually an hour early."

Grissom turned his back attempting to leave the woman behind him. He took one step forward, stopped by the call of his name by someone else.

Spinning around, "Not now, Greg."

He practically ran the rest of the way to his office, closing the door behind him with a slam. Finally, a little serenity, albeit with the mountains of paperwork on his desk that seemed to multiply like rabbits, but a serenity all the same.

He jumped at the movement that came from the corner.

"Sara!"

"Sorry, didn't mean to freak you out."

"What are you doing here?"

"I work here, Grissom," he set the folders on his desk. "Just taking a look at this new display you have here."

He came forward to see what she was talking about. "Oh, that's a Bot fly."

She stepped back quickly. "Aren't those the ones that eat human flesh?" she asked, almost with a worried expression.

He stifled a chuckle. "Only if you get them mad... No, they don't eat flesh," she sighed, relieved. "But they do lay their eggs under the skin of mammals. It's maggots feast on the tissue of the host until it grows and finally falls out and pupates."

She turned to him. "Eww."

They were close, a little too close.

Grissom retreated back to the desk. "So, what did you find out?"

"Well," she moved to the chair in front of the desk where Grissom was perched on the edge. "Quite honestly, not much."

"Nothing suspicious? At all?" Her eyes clouded. "Sara..."

"Not really..."

"Sara..."

"I don't really think that it was suspicious, so much, just out of the ordinary."

"What?" He didn't need her holding back anything.

"After we finished filming, Mitch..."

"Mitch?"

"Hol, the writer."

"Right, the one we met."

"Yeah. Well, he asked me out to dinner."

His face gave nothing away, was a rock. "What did you do?"

"I told him I had to get back to work, that my boss was a bit of a task master."

Grissom's lips turned up as did hers. "What made that out of the ordinary?"

"I don't know. He was just.... creepy."

He nodded. "When does it air."

"Five weeks."

"So what was the plot?"

"Uh...My exboyfriend blew up my apartment."

"He blew it up? Why?" A bemused expression crossed his face momentarily at her short explanation.

"Well..."

"Gil," Catherine slammed the door open as she entered. "We got a... Sara." Cath stopped and stared at Sara. For a moment it seemed as though she didn't know what to do.

"Hey, Cath." She nodded.

"Uh," she turned back to her supervisor and friend, regaining her composure. "I ran the tires through the database. Thirteen of those vehicles registered here in Las Vegas," she tossed the file to him.

"Any of those on our list from the studio?"

"One. A Mr. Vic Hollister."

"Vic Hollister?"

"Star of the show. Plays Detective Mark Genoa."

"Well, looks like we have our first suspect."

A satisfied grin spread across Catherine's face. "Looks like somebody's going to California, and I would like to toss my hat in the ring."

"Actually, Cath," Sara finally spoke up from where she was seated in her chair. "Vic spends his weekends here in Las Vegas, that's why he's got a car out here." She paused, taking in the suspicious look from her coworker. "I overheard people talking... when _we_ were there."

Grissom nodded discreetly.

"Well, you got an address, too?"

"No, Catherine, I don't," a little too much sarcasm. Pulling it back a little, "But I'm sure Brass could hook us up."

"Mr. Hollister, we'd like to thank you for your cooperation in this matter."

"Doesn't really seem like I have much choice."

Sara stared at the man, taking in all six feet two inches of him. He was definitely the Hollywood type- tall, chiseled features, barrel-chested, dark blond hair. If she admitted it, she wouldn't have minded looking at him for a while longer.

Her only interaction with the man had been when she lay on the cold steel of the morgue table. She shuddered as she remembered her thoughts on that day:_ I wonder if this is how it feels to be dead._

But the director had called cut, and she had returned to the land of the living.

Now she stared at him on the other side of the microscope, she was the one examining him.

As Brass continued questioning Hollister, Sara met Grissom at the car and began to process it for possible traces of evidence.

Working on the driver's side, she dusted, printed, and threw the beam of her flashlight over everything in sight.

Nothing.

She took a step back to gather her bearings.

Clearing her throat, "Grissom, uh..." He popped his head up out of the passenger side. Seemed he was having as much luck as she was. "How tall would you say Mr. Hollister is?"

He cast a glance at the man running his hand through his hair over by Brass. "6' 1", maybe. Give or take an inch."

That was the answer she wanted. Grissom couldn't help but notice the small grin that twitched at the edge of her lips. "Why?"

"Take a look at this seat." He did. "That is way too close for someone who is 6'1", wouldn't you say?"

He took it in, examining each aspect. Slowly he nodded.

Sara turned to face Hollister. "Mr. Hollister, are you the only one who drives this car?"

"Uh, my brother drives it sometimes, I guess." He seemed nervous.

"How tall is he?"

"Um, I don't know. 5'9" maybe. It's been a while since I took the tape measure to him."

She nodded. "Grissom, he was not the last to drive this car."

"Um-hum. So, what does that tell us?"

"Well, Professor, I can conclude then that the person to last touch this car would have had to adjust the seat and mirror."

"Very good, student."

Sara knelt down and examined the underside of the seat. Sure enough, there was the bar that pulled the seat forward. She dusted.

"Got one, nice and clear too."

"Yeah, I think I got a good one from the mirror."

"Looks like we're in business."

They collectively turned their attention to the back seat. After combing the back for evidence and finding only a blue fiber of undetermined origin, they pulled some spray bottles from their kits.

"I love this part," Sara grinned under the goggles.

Their spray was methodical, as was everything else in their line of work. They were sure to cover every last inch of the seat.

"That's not gonna ruin my upholstery is it?"

They ignored him.

Grissom let out a sigh. Nothing... Unless...

"Sara, look here." She did. Just under the overhang of the seat, a bright luminescent blue patch appeared.


	8. Now what?

Vic Hollister's head lifted from the table, his eyes drilling a hole into Sara's.

"For the umpteenth time, I have no idea what you are talking about," he growled. The soft gray of the interrogation room cast shadows on the man's face giving him an almost demonic air.

"You don't how Vikki Robbins' blood got on your back seat?" They were Brass' words, but Hollister kept his eyes on Sara.

"No."

"Mr. Hollister, you'll have to forgive me here, I'm finding it difficult to understand," Brass commented with his typical caustic charm. "Your tire tracks are found at Vikki Robbins' murder scene, her blood is on your backseat, and you have no idea how either of them got there?" He placed his hands on the cold table and leaned forward, breathing into Hollister's face. "No idea?"

The man's eyes finally shifted from Sara to Brass. In a fiery tone, whispered "No."

"Mr. Hollister," Grissom finally stepped forward from the corner where his gray jacket blended in nicely with his surroundings. "You said you weren't the only one who drives that car. You said your brother did."

"He might have, once or twice, I guess. I mean, when I'm not home, he probably takes it for a joyride or something."

"Mr. Hollister, where is your brother?" Nothing. Grissom glanced at Sara. "Where is he?"

"You know, _Vic,_ it might make it a whole lot easier for you if you just told us where he is," Brass breathed in his ear.

Turning sharply to the detective, "You really think I'm going to tell you? Far be it from me to do your job." His voice was now rising. "Look, I am here because you asked me to help. Of my own volition." He stood. "If you have any more questions, call my lawyer."

The door sounded with a resounding slam as Vic Hollister's retreating form floated down the hallway.

"That was... useful." Sara slipped into the seat recently vacated by the star. "What do we do now? How do we find the brother?"

"Jim?"

"I knew that was going to be a question, so before I came, I ran a check on our Mr. Hollister."

"Find anything?"

"The earliest listing of Victor Hollister is seven years ago."

"He changed his name."

Grissom nodded. "Not uncommon for those in Hollywood."

Brass pursed his lips. "Nope."

Grissom was thoughtful for a moment. "Jim, you think you can get Hadley to issue a warrant for this guy's house?"

"Judge Hadley? Uh... yeah, probably. Blood and tire tracks should be enough for just about any judge."

"Ok. Sara, once Jim gets the warrant, you go search Hollister's place."

"Looking for..."

"Anything. Anything that will connect him to any of these crimes. Or anything that will enlighten us about his past or even his brother."

"What are you going to do?"

"I, uh, got some loose ends I need to tie up here."

"I remember the joys of administration."

"Shut up, Jim. Just go get the warrant."

A sad smile crossed Grissom's face as the two left the room.

* * *

Grissom rocked back in his chair, tilting his chin up and closing his eyes. He stifled a yawn as his attention returned to the paper gripped between his right thumb and index finger.

He was shaking.

He let go and watched as the paper made its slow, graceful decent to the desk.

All it would take was his signature. Just a few little letters and all this would be over. He tried to remember coming to work in Las Vegas; he couldn't. It seemed like he'd been here forever.

What he'd do if he signed, he had no idea. At least not yet.

He could teach. He'd gotten plenty of offers over the years, but nothing appealed to him as much as a crime lab. He could transfer, but what good would that do?

He mulled over his reasons in his head, mentally checking each item off the list.

_No time to relax._

_Too hectic._

_I'm getting too old for this._

_Better to retire when I'm in my prime._

The last few years and cases had taken their toll on Grissom, but no matter how many times he reviewed his list, thought of the many reasons he had to leave, he kept coming back to one unmistakable fact: _I love what I do._

He cupped his face with his hands. Was it time to move on? Was he losing his touch?

Grissom was brought out of his reverie by the shrill ringing of his cell.

He looked around, desperately trying to locate the small device. He finally found it beneath a pile of case files.

"Grissom."

"Hey, it's me."

He smiled at the familiar tone.

"You find something?"

"Ye....I...ing...speci.... book...ouse..."

"Sara. Sara! I can't hear you." He rose from his seat and walked across the office.

"Can... rissom...here...tinking...full."

"Wait. Hang on a minute." He kept the phone to his ear and marched out of the room ignoring the glances of passersby at the odd tilt of his head.

"Vic...igan..."

"Sara, I can't hear you." He looked at the bars on the phones display. Two. He held it up a little higher and succeeded in establishing another reception bar. "Sara?"

"I...wait...got...sising..."

Returning to his office defeated, he had another idea. He pulled the chair nearest to him over and deftly hopped on.

"So what do you think?"

"Sara, I did not hear a single word of what you just said."

"What?" she sounded deflated.

"Poor reception."

"Oh. Well, to make it short, I was looking through his stuff and I think I found something."

"Really?"

"Yeah," her voice was regaining the original enthusiasm. "After I didn't see anything in any of his papers, I decided to go through the bookshelves, right, and I found some yearbooks. Saline High School in Saline, Michigan. Anyway, I took them out and started looking. Guess what I found?"

"I bet it wasn't Vic Hollister."

"You'd win that bet. But I did find one Robert Victor Hol, who bears a remarkable resemblance to Vic Hollister."

"Hol? As in H-O-L, Hol? As in Mitch Hol?"

"Yeah, that's the surprising part. His picture just happened to be right next to our Robert."

"Looks like you found our missing brother. Good job, Sara." He could almost hear her beaming from the other side of the phone.

* * *

"First of all Mr. Hol, we want to thank you for coming in and answering some questions for us."

"Anything to help catch the killer."

"Just as a reminder, this is just an informal interview, there is no need for an attorney." Brass gestured to the woman at Hol's side.

"She's just here for moral support." Brass nodded.

"When was the last time you drove your brother's car?"

"You mean the Jag? Oh, I don't know, a week ago, maybe." Sara's eyes squinted. There was something different in this Mitch Hol than the one she had met in LA. He was confidant, overly so. Almost condescending in his answers.

"Do you know how some blood got onto the back seat?"

He shifted in his chair but his face was stone. "Maybe I cut myself." Grissom noticed he unconsciously folded his hands together at that remark.

"That's the thing, Mr. Hol. It wasn't your blood." There was just the slightest flicker of, dare she say, panic in the man's eyes. "It was Vikki Robbins' blood."

"Vikki who?" Composure completely regained.

"Robbins. The Prime Time Killer's latest victim."

"Oh, right, the one that was found dead at the dump."

"Quite similar to one of your plots on _The Precinct_, wouldn't you say?" Grissom's eyes narrowed as he asked.

"Are you implying that I had something to do with this?"

"Gentlemen, you cannot formally accuse my client of anything right now."

"Oh, we're not. We're just asking him some questions."

"_No_, you _were_ asking him questions." She stood, taking her briefcase from the tabletop. "Come Mr. Hol, there's no need for you to be harassed here. Detective," she said handing Brass a small business card. "Call me when you have some real evidence."

"Great!" Sara's hand pounded into the table as soon as the two had left.

Grissom removed his glasses and began to rub the bridge of his nose furiously. "We're missing something here."

"What Griss? What are we missing? There's no more evidence at any of the scenes. We've all been over those a million times."

"I know, Sara. Trust me, I know."

"So what do we do now?" It frustrated her that she had been asking that question so often lately.

Grissom was thinking, she could see the clock wheels turning behind his eyes.

"You go home."

"What?"

"Go home, Sara. You're running yourself ragged over this case."

"We've got to catch..."

"Sara, you're no good in this state of mind. You need rest. Go get some. It's your day off anyway. Shift ended four hours ago."

"If you think I'm actually going to..." She was stopped by the wary glance Grissom cast over his shoulder at Brass.

"Um, I uh... think I'm gonna go. Now. Uh... bye." Followed shortly by the soft click of the door.

Quietly, "Your episode comes on tonight."

Episode. _Her_ episode.

Grissom sighed as her face fell.

"They are never going to let me live this one down." Her head slowly fell to rest in her cupped hands.

"Trust me, I will keep the rest of the night shift so busy, they will have no idea what day it is, much less who guest starred on a certain show."

She looked up and sighed.

"Ok... Fine, I'll go home. But I'll be back in tomorrow night."

"Don't you mean tomorrow afternoon?"

A smile crept over her sleep haggard features. "You know me too well."

"Go get some sleep. Please."

"I will."

With a defeated gait, she exited the room.

* * *

The lab was not as quiet during the day as it was at night. That was one realization that hit Grissom between the eyes every time he was there while the sun was still up.

He had come back after the failed interview with Hol to think, to clear his mind, and if he got around to it, clear his desk.

He didn't know how long he had sat staring at nothing in particular, when a sweeping glance at his cluttered desk notified him that the paper he had been struggling with earlier was still there.

He sighed.

Tri-folding it and placing it in an envelope, he shoved to the back of his desk drawer.


	9. Almost There

Sara sunk farther into the mattress as she pulled the down comforter over her head. As much as she hated admitting it, she was tired. Past tired. She lay, her head in the pillow, trying desperately to keep the last sliver of sleep from drifting away.

_Ring_

She groaned. Of course... Of course someone would have to call her on her day off. The job was never-ending.

"Sidle," she answered groggily.

"Sara! Sara, where are you? What are you doing?"

She brushed a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. "I'm in bed, Grissom. It's my day off, remember? I'm doing what you..."

"Sara, get out." In the background she swore she could hear horns honking.

"Grissom, what are you talking about?"

"Sara, trust me. Just get out of your apartment." When he got no reply he ventured further. "Sara, how did your character die in the show?"

"Uh... my ex-boyfriend came over, beat me, tied me to a chair, and blew up the house. A bit on the extreme side, if you ask me. I mean, I've seen some distraught exes, but..."

"Sara, listen to me." The thinly veiled panic in voice was beginning to worry her. "This guy has been killing women who look like the actresses on the show."

"Right."

Lengthy pause.

"Why would he go after a look-a-like when he could have the real McCoy?"

Her breath caught in her throat. She gasped. "Oh my..."

"Get out. Get out now, you don't know when he'll show up, he might not, but you've got to..."

"I have to get everyone out of this building."

"I'll call 911, you just go!"

She was so shocked she didn't notice he had hung up until the incessant beeping came through the line.

Throwing the phone down, she rushed out, heading for the stairwell. She was nearly breathless by the time she reached the doors on the next floor.

"Mrs. Animore, you've got to get out!"

"Oh, hello dear. Sara, isn't it? How are you?"

Sara gripped the old woman's shoulders. "You have to get out, there's a bomb in the building." The woman blanched to the color of her ill-fitting wig.

"A bomb?"

"Yes, just go!" She heard the door close and the slow jog of the woman retreating down the stairs.

Now for 2B. She knocked. No answer. Knocked again. Still nothing.

As she was running up the second flight, Sara was suddenly glad there were only six apartments in her building. She was so engrossed with this thought that she didn't see the woman backing out of 3A.

"Excuse me," the woman cried as Sara knocked the briefcase from her hand.

"You gotta get out!"

The woman looked over her, eyeing her tanktop and shorts. "Pardon me."

"No, listen." Sara gulped in air greedily. "There's a bomb in the building. You have to..."

"A bomb?"

"Yes. Go!" she screamed. The woman gave her a smirk, picked up the briefcase, and continued down the stairs. Sara ran a hand, frustrated, though her hair.

"Are you serious?"

She turned. A young man, probably not much over 20, stared at her from the door jamb, his eyes wide with fright.

"Yeah. Yeah I am. "

"I have to tell me girlfriend..." he backed into the apartment.

"Just hurry!" she called over shoulder.

She found it was much easier to run down the stairs than up.

As she reached her floor, she suddenly realized she had left one area unevacuated- the laundry room.

She had chosen the apartment here next to the laundry room, mostly because it was cheaper than any other, but also because she didn't want her unusual schedule disturbing a neighbor.

She pounded on the door. Nothing. Good. She slumped against the wall to catch a breath.

_Ring_

Her phone! _It's probably Grissom._ She ran back through the open door into her apartment, searching frantically to find the device.

"Looking for this?"

She froze. Gulping, she slowly turned to the voice. "Mitch."

"Yeah. Hi." He gently closed the cell he held aloft and tossed it to her. "How ya doing Ms. Sidle?" Nothing. "Oh, no answer?" He inched toward. Every hair on her neck stood on end. "Well, now why would that be?" He was a foot away. She glanced around the room. He noticed. "Oh, I wouldn't try doing anything." She saw the glint of metal before he even had it at eye level.

_He has a gun. My gun._ She gulped.

"Aw, Sara, are you afraid of me?" She was backing up, trying to put some distance between herself and this demon. "Don't be scared."

Without warning, he brought his hand up. Sara attempted to block with her arms, but it was no use.

She felt the cold of steel against her head just before everything went black.

* * *

The first thing she noticed was that the room was blurry. The second was that her head was pounding. She groaned.

"Welcome back, Ms. Sidle." The memories came rushing back.

_Mitch. Phone. My gun._

When she went to pull away from his outstretched hand, she discovered that none of her limbs could move. Looking down, she saw that she was strapped nicely to a kitchen chair.

"Sorry I had to do that," he leaned in close and gently brushed against the impressive swelling mass on the side of her head causing her to yelp in pain. "Sorry."

"Why are you doing this?" _This would be easier if the room stopped spinning._

"Hey, you're the great CSI, shouldn't you be able to figure it out?" _Breathe in, breathe out. Breath in, breathe out. I wonder what my pulse is?_

Everything felt surreal now, as if she had already done this. _No wonder... I already have._

"Well, maybe I'm not as great as everyone thinks I am."

"Oh, Ms. Sidle, don't think like that. You're a great CSI." He leaned in close, his face inches from hers. His breath smelled like pizza. "It's just that I'm a better criminal." She had to resist the urge to spit at him.

"Seriously, why are you doing this? Why did you kill those women?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I wanted to." He glanced at her, hoping for a reaction of some sort. He didn't get any. "I wanted to see if my plots would work. I mean really, really work. It's not that easy to write a good plot with real science, you know."

"Why did you wait until the show aired? Why not just kill them before and then write about it once you'd gotten away?"

He tossed the gun carelessly between hands. She grimaced. "I thought about that. But then if I messed up, my episodes wouldn't air. Some bigwig at the network would probably think it was bad PR for a criminal to get screen credit."

"So you did it just to see if you could?" She could no longer mask the disgust rising in her like bile.

Finally, the reaction he'd been waiting for. "Yeah." A devilish grin spread it's way over his face. "And now, lucky you will be my next victim. The sad thing, really, is that you won't even get to see your episode. Personally, I think it's one of the best I've written." His watch began beeping. "Oh! That's my cue. Time to get going." He leaned in and kissed her on the lips. She spit at him. "I'm sorry it had to end this way," he said, wiping the spittle from his face. "You and me coulda made a good team."

"Hold it right there Mr. Hol." Slowly, Hol turned on his heel to face the speaker.

"Gil!" Sara couldn't hold back the name from escaping her lips. Silently she pleaded for him to do something.

"Dr. Grissom, isn't it?"

"Put your gun down, Mitch." Grissom leveled his at Hol's head.

"You see, here's the issue with that proposition. You've got a gun, but I've got a hostage." He jammed the barrel into her forehead. She whimpered. Grissom visually wavered. "That's what I thought. Dr. Grissom put down you weapon." When he didn't move: "Now!" He pushed the gun deeper into her head. Sara couldn't control the one tear that slid down her cheek.

Slowly, methodically, Grissom knelt and laid the gun on the floor, never once letting his eyes stray from Sara.

"Good. See it wasn't that hard. Get over here and untie her from the chair," Hol hissed, gesturing with Sara's weapon.

Grissom crossed the room, hands at his side. He kept eye contact with Sara the entire time. Gently, he untied the ropes that had held her hands hostage and still did her feet.

"Gil," Sara cried. It was barely above a whisper.

"It's ok, honey. Everything's ok." He massaged her wrists.

"Oh, how sweet." The comment dripped with sarcasm. "Now get up, both of you!" Griss helped Sara to her feet, steadying her when she almost toppled over due to her still bound feet.

"You know, this would've made for a great ending for this episode. The knight in shining armor shows up at just the right time to get himself killed. Hmmm.... maybe that'll show up next season." He paused. "But I guess that doesn't matter, does it?" He brandished the gun toward down the hall, back toward the bedroom. "Move!"

Sara turned to face Grissom, looking for something, anything. For just an instant, their eyes met. She swallowed. Grissom offered a small smile of reassurance. But it was hard to convince Sara everything was all right when he himself didn't believe it.

Sirens. Lots of them. People talking. Yelling.

Wondering at the commotion coming from just outside the apartment window, Mitch Hol lost his focus for just a split second. That's all it took.

That's all it took for Grissom to let go of Sara, jump Hol, and begin a mad struggle for control of the gun.

Hol wound up and sent a jab right into Grissom's chin. Grissom didn't let go. Vaguely, he could hear Sara yelling from just feet away, screaming at the top of her lungs for some help.

The gun jumped as a round was fired into the ceiling. The coppery taste in Grissom's mouth was becoming stronger.

He wrestled the gun down. Twisted. Ducked. Dodged.

Bang.

Silence.

For one second the world did not move for Sara Sidle. For one second, she sat on the floor, horror filling her veins.

"Grissom!" she screamed. It hurt. She slumped over where she sat, letting the tears fall. Not even attempting to hold back the streams.

A loud thump. Ragged breathing. Footsteps.

"Come on, Sara. Come on!" She felt some hands cradle her head and lift her from her position on the floor. "Let's go."

Through tear-blurred eyes, she looked up. "Grissom..." She choked out.

"Not yet."

From somewhere behind them, she heard the incessant beeping of a watch.

Grissom didn't know he could run very fast. In fact, he had never been much of a sprinter. But as he carried Sara out of the apartment and through the building to the exit, he was sure he broke some kind of record.

The first ray of sun had just hit his face when all hell broke loose. Literally.

He felt the hotness of the flames licking at his back; heard the enormous blast, though it wasn't as loud as he would have imagined. The air rushing out propelled them forward onto the grass where he fell to his knees, dropping his precious cargo in the process. The last thing he saw was the surprise on Sara's bruised face as they began to roll.

Then there was nothing.


	10. A New Home

Ironically, it was his hearing that first alerted Grissom to world outside the deep peace of unconsciousness. A soft lub-dub, a gentle smacking noise against something cold. Somewhere in the back of his foggy mind it registered that those were feet against tile.

Then came his sense of smell. Lemon. Clean. Sterile.

He became aware that he lay on his side, head propped up with a firm pillow. His mouth was dry, as dry as it had ever been.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. White. He blinked, attempting to clear to blurry picture before him. He saw the heart monitor beside the bed, the barren walls, the TV in the corner playing on mute.

A brown tuft on the edge of the bed caught his attention. It moved.

"Sara..." he croaked. He could barely talk his throat was so dry. "Sara..."

She stirred and groggily opened her eyes.

"Wha... Grissom!" She sat upright. "Grissom!" He was glad one of the first things he saw was her smile.

"Water?" He asked weakly.

"Yeah. Yeah, sure." She wheeled herself over to the bedside table. _Wheeled. She's in a wheelchair._ "Here." He greedily drained the white plastic cup of its contents. "Do you want another one?"

"No," he coughed. "No, I'm ok for now."

"How do you feel?"

A smirk crossed his face. "Like I got blown-up."

She groaned. "Very funny."

"I thought so."

She sighed. "Seriously, how are you feeling?"

"To be quite honest, I'm not sure yet. I just woke up, can't feel everything yet." He paused. "But just as a warning, what am I going to feel when I fully come to?"

"Well, let's see... I guess your head isn't as hard as we all thought it was, because you got a good concussion. And, uh, a broken wrist."

"Is that it?" He shifted on his side in order to see her better, but in doing so, a sharp pain coursed through his chest. He couldn't hold back the gasp.

"Oh, yeah, and three broken ribs."

"Thanks for letting me know."

"No problem."

Silence again.

"What about you? What's your inventory?"

"Oh, just two broken legs."

"Both of 'em?"

"Yeah. You're heavier than you look."

"Oh... uh, sorry."

"Hey, that's ok. I'd rather two broken legs than no head." He nodded, sadly recalling the events of the prior day. "How did you know?" she asked quietly.

"About Hol?" she nodded. "I didn't know about him per se, I mean I had good feeling that it was him, but I wasn't sure. I guess I just put one and one together..."

"And got a big bang."

"Yeah."

"Um, Griss," she looked away. "I just wanna... um..." she sighed again. Turning back to him, "I just want to say thank you. I mean I could've..."

"It's... It's ok," he grasped for her hand. "I just wish..."

"Well, Mr. Grissom, welcome back!" A plump, brown-haired nurse entered the room. "Ms. Sidle, are you still here? I tell you Mr. Grissom, this girl has not left your side for the past two days." _I've been out for two days... Sara's been here? _"Honey, I was just talking to Jimmy and he said you get to go home tonight."

"Yeah, Cass, I do."

"Well, that'll be nice. But right now, you gotta leave this room. I have to do some checks on Mr. Grissom here and, sorry, but you can't be here."

"That's all right, Cass. I'll go." She backed away. "So, um... I'll see you later."

"Yeah." Grissom's eyes never left her as rolled through the door, out of sight.

* * *

The halls seemed more deserted than they usually did, but this was his first day back in nearly a month. Maybe things had changed.

He scratched at the white cast that encircled his wrist. He was literally counting the days down on the calendar until it came off.

He looked up just in time to see Judy, one of the receptionists.

"Dr. Grissom it's so good to have you back safe and sound." He could tell she truly meant it.

"It's uh... It's good to be back."

She nodded. "Catherine's waiting for you in the break room."

"Yeah, thanks." He'd gotten the page about ten minutes ago alerting him that his fellow CSI wanted assistance with some evidence. What she was doing in the break room, he didn't know. He didn't want to.

He noticed the door was slightly ajar as he approached, the low hum of conversation emitting from the crack. With trepidation, he pushed the door open.

"SURPRISE!"

Grissom almost made a run for the door, the voice in head screaming "Why did you open it, you idiot?"

"Nnnnnn...." Catherine caught him by the sleeve and hauled the rest of his body into the room. "I don't think so. We may not be able to get away with this on your birthday, but we're sure as hell gonna do it now."

Grissom couldn't help but smile, even with the deep crimson that was quickly spreading through his face.

Nick was the first to approach. "Hey there boss man," he gripped the older man's good hand. "It sure is good to have you back."

"Yeah," Warrick chimed in. "No more having to listen to Attila the Hun." He gestured back to Cath who stood, a happy smirk crossing her face.

"I'm glad to back guys. I really am."

He took some more congratulatory shakes and even accepted the slice of cake that at one time had said "Welcome Back Grissom".

It took him a while but he was finally able to spot a certain brunette among the other festive celebrators.

"Sara," he brushed his hand against her shoulder to get her attention.

"Hey." _She has the most beautiful smile. Funny how I never noticed it before._ "How you doing? And don't you dare say like you got blown up."

He put his hands up in surrender. "Ok, then. I won't." She took a sip of pop from the yellow plastic cup in her hand. "I'm good. Feeling good, especially being back here."

"Home?"

He chuckled. "Yeah, something like that."

"You know, Griss..." She stopped mid-sentence and glanced down at her belt. "Damn thing." She shook her head apologetically, holding her small beeper. "I gotta go return this call"

"Yeah, sure. I'll see later."

"Right."

* * *

Grissom leaned back in his chair. It had been a long time since he'd been here in his office. A longer time, he mused, since he'd done any real paperwork. And it showed. Catherine had kept up with most of it, but there were certain things that only a shift supervisor could do. Why she hadn't just forged his signature floored him.

A gentle rap sounded from the door.

"Come in." He'd welcome just about any distraction at the moment.

"Hey."

"Hi Sara. What's up?"

"Um," she said, closing the door. "Guess I just wanna talk."

"Ok. What about?"

He could see the mental anguish coursing through her as she sat down on the chair opposite him. He stood and came to rest on the edge of the desk.

"What's up?" _That's right. Try to reassure her. _

Suddenly, looking up: "I never thanked you."

"What? Yes you did, back at the hospital..."

"Those were just words. I mean, really, how much can they possibly mean?"

"Sara, they were enough."

"No!" She shouted. "I just feel like... I don't know. They somehow weren't enough."

"Sara," he reached down and took her hand. Again. It was becoming a not uncommon occurrence. Even he noticed it. "Trust me. It was enough."

She looked up, a shaky smile slowly beginning to form on her face. "Thank you," it was barely above a whisper.

The sat for a moment, just savoring the sweetness.

"Actually," he began, dropping her hand and rising. "I'm glad you came by. I have a question for you." He walked across the room. He needed courage for this. And that meant being as far from her as possible.

"Really?" _Here we are again, back in our Everything's Normal mode. _

"Yeah..." He stood for a moment gazing at his hands.

"Just spit it out Griss." He smiled at her directness.

"I was wondering if... um, that is, would you.... uh, I'd like...maybe you don't even want this anymore, but..."

"Are you asking if it's too late?"

His head shot up. His silent shock edged her further.

"What did you have in mind?"

"I was thinking breakfast... or, or dinner... you know whichever..."

"And then what?"

"Then?" He was honestly confused. "I guess another breakfast and/or dinner."

"Uh-huh... Then what?" She had risen by now and was halfway across the room.

"See where it takes us." She nodded.

Face-to-face now. He could feel her body heat. But he could also sense that she was just as unsure as he was.

"Where do see it taking us?"

He gulped. "I was hoping for something that ended with 'I do.'"

She nodded and backed away, her face falling, and with it, his spirit.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't want it to end with 'I do.'"

"Oh." He literally felt like a sail suddenly deflated of wind.

"That's always just been a beginning for me."

She smiled shyly, barely revealing the gap. His face quickly lit up.

"So, will you?"

"Is this your breakfast invite?"

"Yeah. Yeah it is."

She thought for a moment.

Suddenly she was in his arms, pressing against his still healing chest. "Ouch."

"Sorry!" she pulled back.

"That's ok." He looked down at her. "Sara, thank you."

"For what?" Now it was her turn to be confused.

"Everything." With that he placed a chaste kiss upon her lips.

Had they not been so engaged with the other, Sara and Grissom might have heard the soft sigh of frustration coming from the Texan just outside the door.

"Ah man! You've got to be kidding me!" Nick backed away from the small section of window that was not concealed by the blinds. Warrick just laughed.

"You lost, man. Pay up."

Reaching for his wallet, Nick continued, "As sad as I am to see this money go to you, War, I can't say I'm disappointed."

"Yeah, I hear ya. Had I known it was gonna be this easy, I'd have blown up Sara's apartment three years ago."

"Well, doesn't look like you'll have to do it now." He handed the newly minted bill to his coworker.

"Welcome to your new home Mr. Grant."

* * *

A/N: Thanks to all who reviewed this!! It was GREAT!! I really and truly appreciated every single one of them.

For you YTDAW users- I almost put the couch in the office just for kicks!!


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